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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23280922">Boxing In The Dark</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/angrytitanboy/pseuds/angrytitanboy'>angrytitanboy</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Buzzfeed Unsolved (Web Series)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Also night night and legs are goofy mob goons, Alternate Universe - 1920s, Alternate Universe - Mob, Big Apple Steve is main villain, F/M, anyways. Yeehaw, i wrote this for a discord server I guess</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 09:53:24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>10,292</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23280922</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/angrytitanboy/pseuds/angrytitanboy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>(Co written by Lila) </p><p>The year: 1923. The place: New York City, baby. Young, intelligent and naïve detective CC Tinsley gets assigned to a big case— tracking down notorious mob boss, Ricky Goldsworth. However, once cornered, Ricky offers Tinsley the catch of a lifetime... what will happen when the boys inevitably fuck it up? Who is the TRUE villain? Read along as CC Tinsley questions his integrity as a detective, Ricky Goldsworth balances difficult priorities, and Holly Horsely writes a kick-ass crime novel.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>CC Tinsley/Holly Horsely, Shane Madej/Sara Rubin</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>24</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Murder at the Docks</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Written by me and my sister!!!!</p>
    </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Written by me and my sister!!!</p><p>Idk why I can’t use italics this is BS</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The crime was clean enough— an entrance wound neatly below the base of the skull, an exit wound near the crown of the head. The victim was facedown, a pool of blood and brain matter drowning him, with both arms extended in a crawling position. He was bloated around the stomach and fingers, his exposed skin tinged blue. The young detective lowered himself into a squat, raised two fingers, and looked to his supervisor for approval. He touched the victim, pushing gently into his flesh, and feeling the resistance of rigor mortis. “I’ll put him at eight hours. Must’a happened last night,” he said aloud, though no one heard. He stood up again. Beside the victim was a bloodied notepad, with shorthand notes on the names of ships and arrival times. From all around, city gulls cried and the filthy port reeked. Morning in New York City.</p><p>    “The deceased is one Mikhail Nowak,” said the detective to no one in particular as he scribbled on his notepad. “Forty-five years, previous criminal record, currently wanted for possession of alcohol with an intent to sell. Next of kin are his wife, Natasha Nowak, and young son.”</p><p>    Crimes like these were not uncommon in those days. Prohibition drove all sorts of men to desperate measures. Some relied on shady brews sold in cloudy bottles, the cheaper stuff with the bigger payout. Others relied on importers— smugglers— bringing the stuff in from all over the world. Trade, port, and border cities were major hotspots for organized crime, and all the cash was built on bottles. Some smuggling groups were more successful than others. Some got in the way. Some were targeted.</p><p>    Evidently, some smugglers had young children who hung around crime scenes, making the young detective’s job harder than it should be. It wasn’t like the young detective hated kids— it’s just that kids are sticky, sticky and nosy and hard to understand. He didn’t know how to communicate with them. The current child was standing just beyond the police tape, barking at the detective in a language he guessed was Polish. He wasn’t crying, but he was pointing fervently, and seemed to demand the detective’s attention. The tall man sighed.</p><p>    “Hey, kid,” said the detective, flashing his badge and forcing a smile, “you speak English?”</p><p>    The boy nodded. He couldn’t have been more than ten years old. His dark eyes reflected a sort of hatred.</p><p>    “What do they call you?” He asked.</p><p>    “Niko. Nikolai.”</p><p>    “Nikolai. I’m detective C.C. Tinsley,” said the detective, straightening up and casting a shadow over the young boy. He was tall and gangly, awkward in the way he held himself, seeming always on the verge of tipping over. He was thin, but not too thin. “We’re doing what we can, alright? But we’re gonna need you to—“</p><p>    Nikolai snatched Tinsley’s sizable hand, jerking him down toward him. The detective stooped over, surprised. He tripped over his foot, staggering for balance, caught in the swirl of the boy’s red-rimmed eyes.</p><p>    “You don’t like Papa because he is criminal,” said Nikolai in a low voice. “He do it for money. For Mama. Please, find who kill Papa. Find who murder Papa.”</p><p>    This struck Tinsley, who in his surprise backed up, rather shaken. He wanted to laugh, to say, ‘don’t get all vengeful on me, kid. It’s not good for the soul’ but found he could not. Something in the boy’s dark, bottomless eyes had drawn him in, hooked him to this feeling. It was a familiar feeling— purpose. That feeling of purpose was what drove Tinsley in his work. Somehow, it was written in the boy’s expression that this was no common booze crime.</p><p>    “Nikolai, I can’t promise anything, but I will do my b—“ began Tinsley, but the boy shook his head violently.</p><p>“Find him!” He demanded.</p><p>“I… I will,” said Tinsley quietly.    </p><p>The boy turned and walked away, back to where his mother was standing, jabbering at the police in broken English. Tinsley watched him go. The sour breeze blew in from the rancid ocean, wrinkling his nose. The sounds of the port, the frozen tip of the manhattan island, were a tingling lull in his ears. Purpose. The word rang in his ears the whole ride back to the precinct.</p><p> </p><p>The precinct was a red brick building on a street corner in Chelsea, adjacent to a corner store and a barber shop, and just down the road was a hole-in-the-wall coffee shop where C.C. Tinsley found himself spending an inordinate amount of time, poring over case files, drawing lines on notebook paper, chewing the ends of stirring sticks. The familiar, comforting smell of the precinct’s old grime greeted him as he hastily entered, striding past the front desk and to his shared office-space. Purpose. It was still tugging at his shirttails, nagging on his earlobe. He ran his fingers through his tousled hair, looking at the mountains of disorganized papers awaiting him at his desk. I’d better get to work.</p><p>At that moment, a familiar voice caught his attention, calling to him from across the vast room.
 “Psst! Tinsley!”<br/>
Tinsley looked up and met the eyes of a bespectacled young woman leaning comically over the front desk of the precinct. She was grinning— all teeth— and brushing back loose strands of her curly brown hair hanging over her face. She waved. “Tinsley! Psst!” She whisper-shouted.</p><p>He strode over to her. “You don’t have to whisper,” he said. “You can just say my name. You know, like a normal person.”</p><p>The woman grinned again, sitting back into her swivel chair and loosening the collar of her button-up shirt. She crossed her legs, then her arms, and C.C. folded over her desk and bent down to her eye level. “How was the scene?” She asked quietly, eagerly.</p><p>“I’m doing just fine today, Miss Holly Horsely, how about yourself?” Tinsley teased, rolling his eyes. </p><p>“Tell me everything,” she said, leaning forward. “I heard some details from Macavich about his connections to a big crime syndicate, but I wasn’t so sure.”</p><p>“I’ll have more to tell you once the photos develop,” began Tinsley, “but it’s likely he was taken out by a rival gang. It was a Polish guy down by the South Street Seaport— Mikhail Nowak. He seemed pretty small-time, though, so I’m wondering what he did to cause a big enough ruckus. Manner of death was particular, no evidence of a struggle… if you ask me, I’ll bet he didn’t even know what hit him. Dead before he hit the ground.”</p><p>”Nowak… I think I’ve heard the name. Interesting,” Holly nodded, two fingers pursed over her lips. “How was he killed? Any calling cards left behind? Warnings?”</p><p>”We’re still looking around the victim’s house, but from what we can tell, it was ransacked,” sighed Tinsley. “A lot to sift through. No calling cards just yet, but the way they killed him was interesting. Gunshot wound just below the base of the skull, the bullet shot through the crown of his head. They must have had to hold him in place…”</p><p>”wait, you said just below the base of the skull?” Holly asked eagerly, a smile spreading across her face. “Like, just below that little notch?”</p><p>”Exactly,” said Tinsley, narrowing his eyes. “What are you getting at?”</p><p>Holly laughed, covering her mouth to hide her excitement. “Ah, Cecil Callan Tinsley, you’ve done it now, old pal!”</p><p>“What are you talking about?”</p><p>“This is a Goldsworth murder, Tinsley!” Whispered Holly. “The big leagues, buddy. The case of a lifetime. I’m telling you, if you nab this guy, your name will be in the papers for months.”</p><p>”Wait, wait, slow down,” Tinsley said, putting his hand up and hanging his head. “Who is Goldsworth?”</p><p>Holly Horsely’s mouth was agape. “Goldsworth? Ricky Goldsworth? He’s only the second-biggest crime boss in New York City. The Goldsworth Family crime syndicate is one of the oldest and most expansive on Manhattan Island, second only to the Bad Apples.”</p><p>“Holly, there’s no evidence that the Bad Apple Gang even exists,” C.C. groaned. “How do I know this isn’t another one of your wild conspiracy theories?”</p><p>“Trust me on this,” said Holly, gripping his hand. “Maybe I’m wrong about this, but the way he was shot is a classic Goldsworth technique. Look into it. Tell me what you find.”</p><p>With no other leads, Tinsley had no choice. He ventured into the musty library closet, sifting among hundreds of old files for one Ricky Goldsworth.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Lady of the Hour</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>A moderately sized man of considerable build leaned back in his cushioned chair, gently swirling the amber liquid at the bottom of his glass. Fat ice cubes clinked against one another, and the man took a slow, generous sip, savoring the burn as the maple whiskey rolled down his throat. He cocked his head and took a long pull off of his thick cigar, then lazily exhaled, filling the small office with the smell of sweet tobacco. The man grinned, eyes set narrowly in his deep olive skin, and pushed back a strand of his short, black hair. He met the prideful eyes of the two other men in the room.</p><p>“Well boys,” said Ricky Goldsworth, considering his drink as warmth bubbled in his chest, “for once, you didn’t fuck it up. I’m quite pleased with your performance today.” </p><p>He looked at them individually, studying each. From their appearances, no one would have guessed that the three men were cousins. They had grown up together, with Ricky to lead them, and they had grown to be his most valuable confidants, though they weren’t the brightest of the bunch. The man to the left was long, lanky, bent slightly at the neck to avoid the low ceiling of the place, his spindly fingers folded over his belly in a strange fashion. “Legs,” said Ricky, then looking to the other— a shorter man, one who oddly resembled Ricky himself, who crossed his arms proudly. “Night Night,” said Ricky. Then to the both of them: “have a seat. I’ve got a little somethin’ for you.”</p><p>The men sat, and Ricky reached into the bottom drawer of his expansive desk, retrieving two small, clinking bottles of elegant carving. The men inhaled eagerly as the main man presented the gift. “Two bottles of Grade-A maple whiskey, straight from Nashville, Tennessee. I tell you, I love the stuff. Good work today, boys.”</p><p>Night Night and Legs muttered their thanks as they took the bottles. Night Night inspected the label as though it were a piece of art. Legs twisted the cap off immediately.</p><p>“Now, if you’ll leave me, I have a little business to attend to,” said Ricky, waving them out as he took another pull off his cigar. “And hey— here’s to Mikhael Nowak, that old bastard. He made me a good sum of money.”</p><p>The men raised their bottles as Ricky Goldsworth took a sip.</p><p> </p><p>Finding details on the elusive but legendary Ricky Goldsworth was far easier said than done. Before the day was over, CC Tinsley had spent hours in the file closet, fighting the musty air and sheets of dust and cobwebs covering boxes. Finally, buried deep in the back of the G cabinet, Tinsley retrieved a thin folder labeled ‘Goldsworth, Ricky’. It was barely five pages of scant information. Tinsley knew his work was cut out for him.</p><p>He left the precinct that day long after dark, his arms full of thick files spanning years— robberies, shootouts, murders, beatings, anything related to booze gangs in the main areas that the Goldsworth Family was knows to operate. By the time CC Tinsley climbed off the subway, made the five-block trek to his apartment building, and braved the 10-floor walk up while carrying around 20 pounds of paper, he was huffing and puffing. He stumbled inside, threw the papers onto his coffee table, and immediately sat down to work. His orange tabby cat, Noelle, mewled her greetings and settled beside him on the couch. He gave her a few loving pats as he began sifting through the mountains of information.</p><p>He worked well into the night, his eyes sunken and sallow, his mouth dry. He cleared everything off of his cork board and got out his yarn and scissors. He began to draw connections, string lines, gathering more and more evidence against the Family. With every crime he was able to link him to, CC Tinsley knew more and more about the mysterious mobster they called Ricky Goldsworth, if that was even his real name. Tinsley stepped back from the board, admiring his work, and furrowed his brow against a creeping realization. </p><p>“Holly was right,” Tinsley said to Noelle, who raised her head ever-so slightly, her tail lifting lazily into the air. “This Goldsworth fella is in the big leagues. Even if he was the mastermind between these crimes, he’s kept his hands clean and his tracks covered— he’s good. Real good. But if I can pin him squarely to the murder of Mikhail Nowak, I’ll get that warrant. The only thing is…”</p><p>He considered his hands for a moment. Only that morning had that ten year old boy snatched his hands and yanked him down to his level. Only that morning had Nikolai Nowak demanded that Tinsley find his father’s killer, filling him with that sense of purpose that he could not escape. The father was just a small-time booze runner— what could he have done to make him worth a risky murder? In the past, when other sellers or snitches posed problems for the Goldsworth Family, they had been beaten senseless or robbed or had their dog shot or something, just to scare them into silence. What could a small-time seller have done?</p><p>Then it hit him— perhaps Mikhail Nowak wasn’t as small-time as Tinsley had once thought. </p><p>Tinsley worked all night, digging through papers and files, finding every shred of evidence he could. He had enough to request a warrant easily. But once there was a warrant, they had to find the man himself, which was easier said than done. Again, the detective took to his stringed board, searching for someone to question. </p><p>“Common goons in the slammer? No, they’re too loyal to give up any information… other officers? No, they don’t know much more than I do…” Finally, his eyes came to rest on an image he had previously overlooked— it was the portrait of a woman, professionally done, with her name scrawled in cursive below: Francesca Norris.</p><p>“Francesca Norris,” exhaled Tinsley, taking a step closer and reviewing the notes he had left beside her picture. “Former lover of Ricky Goldsworth… heiress to a coal-mining fortune… previously arrested for public intoxication.” He turned to Noelle, a wide smile spread wildly over his exhausted face. “We got her, Noelle,” he said breathlessly. “If I’m lucky, I might just get some information out of her.”</p><p> </p><p>The building sat overlooking the east side of Central Park, near the MET. The building’s exterior was old and charming, with intricate stone carvings and gargoyles on peaks. The windows reflecting the late morning sunlight were tall and glimmering, paned elegantly. The ceilings were high, the balconies thin. CC Tinsley felt envy bubble up in him, and he hadn’t even seen the interior.</p><p>The interior, he soon discovered, was even more magnificent. The lobby spanned two floors high, with a grand staircase leading to a ballroom. The lobby’s front desk was elegant mahogany, and the attendant’s uniform was crisp and clean. He smiled politely when Tinsley, in his exhausted and disheveled nature, stumbled in through the revolving door. “Good afternoon, sir,” said the attendant as Tinsley approached him. “Are you here to visit with someone?”</p><p>“Uh, yeah,” said the detective, fishing for his badge. He flashed it, and the attendant understood. “I’m looking for Francesca Norris.”</p><p>“Tenth floor, room 1034,” said the attendant.</p><p>“Please tell me you have an elevator,” winced Tinsley.</p><p>The attendant smiled. “We do. Our operator will assist you.”</p><p>Tinsley mumbled to himself as he approached the elegant, gilded elevator: “this Norris bird is loaded, huh?” The operator did not notice. He slid back the gate, pressed a button, and Tinsley braced himself as the elevator creaked and roared. </p><p>The door was labeled. “Francesca M. Norris,” Tinsley read aloud. He took a deep breath and knocked hard.<br/>Five seconds passed before the sharp sound of the peephole latch switched open and a single green eye, heavily lined, peered back at him with scrutinous brows. The latch closed and the lock turned. The door swung open, revealing the woman Tinsley had seen in the photo on his cork board. She looked strikingly similar, as though no time at all had passed, retaining every ounce of beauty that had intrigued Tinsley before. Her figure was slim with slight curves accentuated by her loosely fitted dress. Her short black hair was done up behind her ears, revealing dangling tassel earrings. Her lips and cheeks were rouged, her eyelids sooted. She looked him up and down as she leaned against her door frame, blocking his view of her living room. In her left hand was a short glass. The smell of fragrant alcohol radiated from her lips. She smiled.</p><p>“May I help you?” She asked.</p><p>Tinsley flashed his badge, and her face went sour. “Miss Francesca Norris, I’m detective CC Tinsley with the NYPD. I’d like to ask you a few questions, if you don’t mind.”</p><p>“Do you have a warrant?” She asked, frowning.</p><p>Tinsley smiled wearily. “It’s not you I’m after, ma’am. I’ve got some questions regarding your previous, uh, aquatintences.”</p><p>The elegant woman let her guard down slightly, allowing a soft smile to spread across her face. “Certainly. Come in,” she said, turning from the doorway and striding into her vast apartment. She swung her hips, and Tinsley did not watch.</p><p>The detective marveled at her high ceilings and impeccable view of Central Park. The whole of the place was illuminated solely by sunlight, bathing them both in the warm glow of morning. “Do sit down,” Francesca directed him to a velvet soft across from a cherrywood coffee table. The woman took down a half-full bottle of clear liquid and poured a generous helping into a glass identical to hers. She brought the drink to him, smiling as she did. “A drink, detective?” </p><p>Tinsley hesitated, then gave in. He sipped the liquid gratefully, relishing the wincing burn of Canadian vodka on his tongue. It had been a long while since he’d had a good drink. As soon as he drank, the woman relaxed. He was on her level now.</p><p>“Miss Norris, I—“</p><p>“Call me Francesca,” she grinned.</p><p>Tinsley did not smile. “Miss Norris, I have a few questions regarding your previous involvement with a local booze gang.”</p><p>Her expression immediately darkened. She looked away. “This is about Ricky, isn’t it?”</p><p>Tinsley straightened up, folding his arms awkwardly. “What was your relationship with Ricky?”</p><p>She glowered at him. “You’re trying to catch him, aren’t you? Well, good luck. Ricky doesn’t get caught. He’s never been caught. Even if you do catch him, you won’t be able to take down the whole Family. Cut off one head, two more sprout in it’s place. Fat chance.”</p><p>Tinsley sighed through his nose. “What was your relationship with Ricky Goldsworth?” He repeated.</p><p>She paused, then looked into her glass as though measuring it. “I was his lover. One of many,” she snorted, “but I was one of his favorites. His other girls— common whores, street girls— he liked them just fine, but it was my money that caught his eye. It gave me a certain… let’s say… insight.”</p><p>Tinsley looked around, admiring the various artworks strewn about her walls. “You certainly are living comfortably. May I ask where you get this money?”</p><p>“I’m the heir to my father’s coal mining fortune,” she said proudly. “Of course, I won’t be running it. That job will go to my brother. But I still get my fair share of the money. A lady needs something to live off of, right?”</p><p>“You don’t have a husband, then?” Tinsley inquired.</p><p>Francesca grinned. “I’m certainly available, if you’re asking.”</p><p>“I’m not,” said Tinsley plainly. </p><p>Francesca waved his question away. “Too young for a husband, detective. I’ve got so many years of youth ahead of me, and I intend to enjoy every moment without being anchored to a man.”</p><p>Tinsley nodded. “Then, about Ricky…”</p><p>”That’s precisely why I left him,” explained Francesca. “He wanted to marry me. He wanted me to rule that crime gang with him, like king and queen. He was madly in love with me,” she laughed. “But, oh, I’m a free bird. I need to fly. He wanted to cage me, and so I left him. And, well… he didn’t take it too well.”</p><p>“What did he do?”</p><p>“He sent his goons to stalk me,” she grimaced, tightening her grip on the glass. “These two guys— Night-Night and Legs, I believe— started coming around, talking to my doorman, leaving me packages of flowers and money and booze, catching me on a street corner and trying to pressure me into going back to Ricky.” She took a long, dramatic sip of her vodka before standing up and walking to the window. She pressed her fingertips against the glass and sighed. Tinsley did not follow her. He only watched her, swishing his drink. “He had them kidnap me.”</p><p>Tinsley perked up immediately. “What?”</p><p>She turned to him. “They threw me in a car and drove me to Ricky’s place. They didn’t hurt me or anything, but they kidnapped me. Finally Ricky himself came and spoke to me in this dark room. He told me that he loved me and he couldn’t bear to lose me. I told him that after his shenanigans, I’d never go back to him. Then he threatened me. He said that if I ever spoke a word about his dealings, ever testified in court, anything, that he’d make sure my life was hell from that point forward. I told him that if I received another damn package, if I ever saw those dopey goons ever again, I’d tell the cops everything and move to France. We seemed to reach an agreement there… he let me go, and I haven’t heard nothing since.”</p><p>“How long ago was that?” Tinsley asked.</p><p>“About six months ago.”</p><p>Tinsley sighed a deep sigh. He stood up, approaching the woman slowly, as you would approach a nervous animal. She tensed up. “Miss Norris,” Tinsley sighed. “A man has been murdered down at the South Street Seaport. I’ve already got a warrant for Ricky’s arrest. He’s hard to pin down. Someone like you— an insider— would likely have the information I need to get at him.”</p><p>Francesca turned away. “I can’t help you.”</p><p>“I know for a fact that you can,” he said. “Miss Norris, I’m a firm believer in the justice system. This man— Ricky Goldsworth is a bad, bad man. He needs to be served justice for his crimes. You can help me do this. Now, I know you’re worried about retaliation, but the police department can help you. We can put you under witness protection. Please,” Tinsley implored, his eyes dark and round, staring deep into the woman’s face. “Tell me how to find Ricky Goldsworth.”</p><p>She considered him, finished her drink, and sighed firmly. “If I tell you how to find him, you’ll help me move to France. Deal?”</p><p>Tinsley took it in a heartbeat. “Yes. Deal.”</p><p>Francesca Norris spun on her heels and strode toward the desk against the west wall. She took a sheet of paper and a pen and began to write, talking ask she did. “Go to the Ophelia tavern in Hell’s Kitchen. It’s a basement. A shitty little place. Go to the bar and ask for a devil shot on the rocks. The bartender will either tell you they’re all out— that means Ricky isn’t there— or he’ll go in the back and get Ricky for you. But listen,” she said, handing him the paper, “whatever you do, don’t be obvious. Ricky’s not an idiot.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. The Ophelia</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>CC Tinsley considered the woman across from him for a brief moment, studying the expression of confidence and eagerness as she counted the seconds of his silence. He looked to her notepad, which she now covered with both arms. He rubbed the stubble forming on his chin and closed his eyes. “Ah,” he exhaled with a smile, looking first to the ceiling and then to the eyes of the woman. The confidence drained from her face. “It’s the maid,” said Tinsley plainly.</p><p>Holly Horsely smacked both of her palms down on the small metal table against the brick wall, rattling the saucers holding their cappuccinos. Tinsley chuckled through his nose, toying with his spoon, satisfied. “God damn it, Cecil!” Exclaimed Holly, one hand firmly against her forehead, the other across her notes. “Was it that obvious?”</p><p>“Probably not to the average reader,” offered Tinsley. “I’ve just been in the business for a while.”</p><p>Holly narrowed her eyes at him, and he laughed. </p><p>“I think it’s a good plot, though, Holly, I really do,” Tinsley assured her, leaning forward on the table and tearing a chunk from the corner of her apple danish. She tried to lightly slap his hand away, but he had already popped the pastry into his mouth and was smiling at her. “I’d maybe remove some of the clues, add in some more gruesomeness—“</p><p>“Yeah, yeah, Mr. Big-Shot Detective,” Holly rolled her eyes. “You’re not a professional author. I’ll handle the intricacies, thank you.”</p><p>“You’re a professional secretary,” Tinsley reminded her.</p><p>“Not once I publish this baby!” </p><p>Tinsley admired her for a moment, the way her oaky brown curls shook about her head when she laughed, the way her glasses slipped down her nose, the creases in her cheeks that appeared when she smiled. He shook the thought from his head. He’d rather not complicate things. After all, she was his only confidant.</p><p>“So how’s the Nowak case going?” Holly inquired before he could ask. “Have you looked into the Goldsworth Family?”</p><p>“Extensively,” CC Tinsley sighed, the hollows beneath his eyes reappearing.</p><p>“I figured, you look like hot garbage,” Holly commented, and Tinsley frowned at her. “Well, what’d you find?”</p><p>“I found an old flame of his— Francesca Norris,” said Tinsley. “This coal heiress up in Central Park. A little convincing, a little booze, and she gave me a direct line to Ricky himself.”</p><p>Holly looked around wildly, then lowered her head on her shoulders and hissed, “don’t talk so loud! You said you gave her a drink?”</p><p>“Other way around,” clarified Tinsley.</p><p>“And she gave you Ricky’s information? Just like that? Is she even credible?”</p><p>“I’ve got my intuition about me, Holly, and I’ve got a good feeling. She told me about how he kidnapped and stalked her, and I exchanged her information about Ricky with her protection on her move to France,” Tinsley explained. “Trust me, Holly, this is good. She’s good.”</p><p>Holly leaned back skeptically. “That was a risky move and you know it, Cecil,” she scolded. “What intel did she give you?”</p><p>“Directions to a bar run by the Goldsworth family— the Ophelia Tavern. When I get there, I order a drink in code, and Ricky should come out and talk to me. That’s when I’ll bag him. Classic bait-and-switch.”</p><p>Holly cupped her forehead in her palm. “That’s not what that means…”</p><p>“This is big, Holly!” Tinsley whisper-shouted, a wide smile across his face. “This is the case that could make my career.”</p><p>“I know, I know,” Holly smiled, “and I really am excited for you. But this guy— Ricky— he’s a bad dude. If you don’t do this right, you’re target numero uno, pal. You’re going in with backup, right?”</p><p>Tinsley blanked— he hadn’t thought about that. “Yeah, definitely.”</p><p>Holly sucked in her left cheek and narrowed her eyes.</p><p>“I will, Holly. Trust me.”</p><p>Holly eyed him for a moment, then closed her eyes and exhaled. She extended her hand. “Promise.”</p><p>He took her hand, gave it a firm squeeze. “Promise.” He lingered on the feeling of her skin for longer than he should have, and she pulled away first.</p><p> </p><p>The Ophelia was exactly where Francesca Norris had said it would be. A small, unsuspecting sign at about hip-level for Tinsley brandished the name in pale black lettering, as though faded by time. A grimy, nearly green staircase led down into a concrete den, wherein lay the tavern. It reeked. Tinsley wrinkled his nose and looked around him, taking in the grimy city streets. </p><p>There were eyes on him from all around. A bum laying across the sidewalk three yards away stared deeply into his face, grimacing. A trio of plainclothes officers stood by, smoking cigarettes and chatting about nothing. A car lurked nearby; Tinsley could not see its occupants. Anyone could be anyone. The detective chose not to linger and exhaled deeply as he descended into Ricky Goldsworth’s den.</p><p>He pushed into the bar, where the thick smell of cigar smoke and men’s cologne washed him in overwhelming aroma. “Better than the stairwell,” thought Tinsley. He tried to keep his hands still in his pockets as he strolled to the bar. Every set of eyes in the room trained steadily on him, hostility radiating from them. Tinsley kept his poker face about him as he pulled out the bar seat. The bartender, a stocky man with fierce black eyes and sleeves rolled up to his elbows glowered at him.</p><p>“Can I help you?” He growled.</p><p>Tinsley analyzed the room— one man in the corner sucking on a cigar, one man at a table sipping a mug of something frothy, one man against the south wall, all of whom were likely armed. Tinsley looked the bartender directly in the eyes and said, “pal, I’m gonna need a basket of your finest fried pickles. Oh— and I need a devil shot on the rocks.”</p><p>The man’s eyebrows remained steadily furrowed. He looked to the man at the south wall, then to Tinsley. He considered him for three excruciating seconds, seconds which ate away at the soul of Tinsley. His heart thundered in his chest, but his exterior was fully calm. He held his breath and smiled. Finally, the bartender stepped back, nodded, and left the room without a word.<br/>Scarcely a sound could be heard in the room. Only the breaths of the three men and the quickened heartbeat of the detective stirred the air. A minute passed.</p><p>The door beside which the man on the south wall stood swung open. Tinsley turned casually in his chair and nearly lost his breath as he laid eyes on the man behind the Nowak murder. </p><p>“You new here?” Said Ricky Goldsworth. </p><p>“I thought I ordered some fried pickles,” Tinsley grinned. Goldsworth returned his smile as he approached him, taking the position of the bartender. </p><p>He looked about how Tinsley had imagined him. The few pictures taken of him did not do the man justice— he was incredibly handsome. He was firmly built with visible muscle tone on his chest and arms from beneath his button-down shirt. His hair was jet back and slicked behind his ears, with a single loose strand crossing over his forehead. His eyebrows were bushy over his deeply set brown eyes. He had a five o’clock shadow. When he grinned, it was all teeth. Tinsley held his cool, assessing every detail of the murderer. He did not flinch.</p><p>“Y’know, detective…” Ricky began, leaning in close over the bar. Tinsley’s heart dropped and swam in his stomach, and he did not breathe. He held very, very still, like a roach caught in sudden light. “When people come into my house, they leave their jackets at the door.” He eyed Tinsley’s coat and met his eyes devilishly. “Why don’t you show me what you’ve got under there, huh?”</p><p>“It’s not under my coat,” Tinsley whispered, cocking his gun against his thigh. The click that shocked the room caused each man to spring to their feet, their guns drawn at the ready. Tinsley and Ricky were still, a big grin spreading across Ricky’s face. He leaned in even closer. </p><p>He whispered, “give me a single fucking reason as to why I shouldn’t kill you right now.”</p><p>Tinsley’s face was stone cold as he said, “because I’ve got backup.”</p><p>In a single, swift motion, he shot the ground and ducked from the hail of bullets that sprayed about the room. Ricky disappeared almost instantly as the room filled with gun smoke and confusion. The door was kicked in by the plainclothes officers, shouting and threatening wildly. Tinsley folded his lanky body behind the wooden stool on which he sat, firing blindly against the haze. His bullet was the final one fired. Within moments, the fight was over. Two men were handcuffed, their faces smashed against the grimy floor. The man on the south wall and Ricky Goldsworth himself had escaped. Tinsley threw his gun against the ground.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Picking up the Pieces</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>With faces full of pride, Night Night and Legs approached the elegant cherrywood desk. The velvet swivel chair spun, revealing Ricky Goldsworth hunched in a brooding position. He crossed his ankle over his knee and rested both elbows on his calf, bringing two fingers to press against his lips, hands clasped. His eyes were narrow, deep in thought. He did not move his head as he looked up to his cousins. “Well?” He said expectantly. “What did you find?”</p>
<p>“A good bit on that detective,” said Legs, presenting a stack of haphazardly organized papers clamped together by a binder clip. Ricky all but snatched it from his hands and began flipping through the pages— pictures, job descriptions, bank notes…</p>
<p>“Cecil Callan Tinsley,” said Night Night. “Calls himself CC. He’s been with the NYPD for nine years, been a detective for five. He’s got the experience, sure, but he hasn’t been so ambitious. His biggest case was catching a killer up in the Bronx. You remember that, from a few years ago?”</p>
<p>“The Butcher of the Bronx? Yeah, I remember him,” said Ricky, relaxing in his seat as he continued to study the many numbers and names that made up CC Tinsley. “He killed… what, ten girls?”</p>
<p>“About thirteen over a three-month period,” clarified Legs. “It says in the report that coppers were stumped until they brought Tinsley onto the case. He bagged ‘em in two weeks. Impressive, really…”</p>
<p>Ricky did not smile. He closed the packet and tossed it onto his desk, sighing in frustration. “I don’t like this, boys. Nobody goes after Ricky Goldsworth. Nobody. How the hell did he find The Ophelia? There must have been a snitch…”</p>
<p>“Wasn’t me,” Legs blurted immediately, eliciting a sharp glare from Ricky and  an elbow in the ribs from Night Night.</p>
<p>“I know that, idiot,” snapped Ricky, straightening himself up and addressing them both directly. He had composed himself, like a spider ready to strike. The gears in his head began to turn, lighting up the clockwork lining his smile. “Boys, I already know who the snitch is. There’s only one reasonable answer— my Frankie Norris from way back when. He must have given her a pretty penny to squeal on me; not like she needs pennies, anyway. Even then, it doesn’t matter who told him. What matters is that he knows. That’s the real predicament.”</p>
<p>“Then what do you want us to do?” Asked Legs.</p>
<p>“Whack ‘em, obviously,” Night Night finished for him.</p>
<p>“Hold your horses, pal,” said Ricky, rising from his seat and striding to his high shelf, from which he retrieved a glass tray of crisp letter paper. From his desk drawer, he produced a fountain pen emblazoned with his initals. “This Tinsley guy ain’t much to worry over. Did you see how fast he blew it trying to go undercover on us? My bet is that The Ophelia was his only connection to the Family. This gives us an opportunity. Get it?”</p>
<p>From the dumb expressions on his cousins’ faces, Ricky could tell they did not. He sighed.</p>
<p>“What I’m saying, boys, is that Tinsley isn’t an immediate threat,” he explained. “We’ll whack him later. For now…” he glanced at his writing papers, “I think I’ll have a little fun with our new friend.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Tinsley was lightning on his feet and fiery in his lungs as he made his way back to the dazzling home of Francesca Norris. Upon escaping the failed setup of Ricky Goldsworth at the Ophelia, he clambered back into his patrol car and switched on the lights. The deafening wail of the siren above him drowned out the ringing of gunshots in his ear. He had very, very little time. </p>
<p>He parked on the street, ran into the lobby, and did not even acknowledge the doorman before making a beeline for the elevator. </p>
<p>“Uh, sir—“ the familiar doorman began, but Tinsley practically threw his badge at him on his way to the elevator. </p>
<p>“Police!”</p>
<p>The elevator was gone. The detective didn’t have time to wait. He took a long, hard look at the staircase at the back of the hallway and sucked in his stomach. He didn’t have much of a choice, so he found himself taking double-steps on the ten-floor walkup to room 1034.</p>
<p>By the time the detective reached her door, he was desperately out of breath, wheezing and gasping and trying to regain control as he pounded against her door. “Police, open up!” He demanded, his chest heaving. Sweat dripped from his brow. The peephole latch slid open, and the scornful green eye of that familiar elegant woman stared back at him. </p>
<p>“Got a warrant?” She asked coldly through the door.</p>
<p>“God damn it, Norris, open up!” He cried, exasperated. <br/>The door latch clicked, and Tinsley practically knocked the woman down as he burst into her house, frantically looking around for something, anything, that could get him out of this shit sandwich. All he saw was much of the same— art, coffee tables, liquor still in little jars strewn about the place. In a bedroom off to the side, three suitcases lay unpacked.</p>
<p>“What do you think you’re doing?” Francesca exclaimed, hurrying after him, trying to protect her belongings from his gaze. “If you don’t have a warrant, I could sue you out of a career and a house,” she threatened. Tinsley was unfazed. He continued shifting around, mumbling, growing more and more frustrated when he found nothing. “Tinsley!” Norris practically screamed.</p>
<p>“The setup was botched,” Tinsley blurted, running his fingers through his hair. “Ricky knows me by name. He probably knows you snitched. He’s gonna be after us both, Miss Norris— I can take care of myself, but I need you to—“</p>
<p>“What else do you need from me?” Francesca interrupted. “I know you fucked up the setup. You think Ricky’s goons didn’t call me the second it happened? ‘Your copper friend can’t help you now,’ they said. If I don’t skip town immediately, they’ll have my head on a spike, and it’s all your fault, Tinsley.” She was positively furious, shouting, pointing with a stern finger as tears of fear steadily came to her eyes. Tinsley watched her, catching his breath. “What exactly do you want from me?” Francesca continued, on the verge of weeping.</p>
<p>“I’ll get your name changed,” Tinsley said finally, moving toward her and trying to bring his body down to her level. “I- I’ll get your name changed, and I’ll get a police escort to your ship, a- and I’ll put you under witness protection. You’ll be safe, I promise,” he said in a low voice. She considered it, eyeing him in his vulnerability and exhaustion. She felt ice melt from her heart. “Please,” Tinsley breathed, “you gotta help me here, Francesca.”</p>
<p>There was a pause. The young woman turned from him and strode to her bedroom, where the sounds of her presence could be heard from where Tinsley stood. He waited patiently until she returned, carrying with her a small black shoebox made of velvet and cardboard. He squinted at it. Norris pulled the top, revealing a stack of cash and a tangled mess of gold and silver necklaces, encrusted with jewels and shine. Tinsley looked sharply at her.</p>
<p>“Listen,” Francesca said, “I don’t have much on Ricky anymore. After he and I split, he changed up a lot of things in the Family to keep possible informants like me out of the loop. I gave you what I knew about him, and now you want more. Well, this is what I’ve got.”</p>
<p>“Money and jewelry?” Tinsley asked skeptically.</p>
<p>“Ricky’s a gangster. All they care about is money,” Norris said, closing the box. “This might come in handy.”</p>
<p>“That’s it?” Tinsley interjected. “What, you expect me to catch the worst mob boss in New York City with a couple bucks and grandma’s cross? You can’t be serious.”</p>
<p>“I don’t care what you do,” Francesca snapped, shoving the box into his hands. “The only thing I expect you to do is have two cops outside my door at all hours until my departure for France. If you don’t honor our agreement—“</p>
<p>“You’ll sue for unlawful intrusion, I get it,” Tinsley rolled his eyes.</p>
<p>“And theft,” Francesca pointed to the box. “I’ve got the money, honey. The jury swings any way my wind blows. Remember that.”</p>
<p>“You know it’s people like you that I’m supposed to be putting in jail,” Tinsley seethed. “Rich kids who use their money to corrupt the public and advance their own social status. I should be taking you in.”</p>
<p>Francesca grinned. “But you won’t, will you?”</p>
<p>Tinsley said nothing.</p>
<p>“Get out of my apartment.”</p>
<p>He left, the box under his arm, listening to the metal clink and jingle within. From behind him, he heard her call out.</p>
<p>“When you get him,” Francesca was saying, “tell him Frankie sends kisses.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Tinsley drove slower on the way home, no sirens or lights blaring above him. He sat in traffic like everyone else, hands wrapped lazily around the wheel, weighted by a creeping sense of hopelessness. It wouldn’t be long until the Goldsworth family started coming after him. He supposed that they’d give him a period of grace, hoping not to make too big of a deal out of the shootout, but eventually they’d come to tie up their loose ends. He dreaded that day. Back at the precinct, he argued with his captain over expanding two men to guard a rich young brat day and night, but eventually, the captain gave way. The men assigned to the task gave Tinsley cold looks as they headed out the door. The detective pretended not to see them. He worked restlessly on the case, well into the evening. The two men they had arrested from the Ophelia refused to speak without lawyers, and would be expected to keep their secrecy to the mob. In short, they were dead ends. There was no lead for Tinsley to go off of. He began to grow anxious.</p>
<p>Soon, he was alone in the precinct. Or, at least, he thought he was. As he dug deeper and deeper into the Goldsworth files he had collected, he felt a soft hand on his shoulder and jerked away, terrified.</p>
<p>It was only Holly. She seemed even more frightened than him, pulling back her hand and clasping it. “Cecil?” She whispered. “Are you alright? You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Why are you still here?”</p>
<p>An overwhelming urge to relish the safety she offered washed over Tinsley, but he held back. As much as he wanted to tell her everything, to confide in someone, to tell anybody that he was absolutely scared shitless, he knew somewhere inside that he could not. He couldn’t bring himself to implicate her, to put her in danger in any way. He would handle this himself. He wouldn’t bring Holly Horsely into the crosshairs.</p>
<p>“Cecil?” Holly called to him again.</p>
<p>“I’m okay, Holly,” said Tinsley, relaxing his shoulders and forcing a smile. “Just need to finish something up here… you should go home before it gets too dark, okay?”</p>
<p>Holly knew something was wrong, but said nothing. She gave him a sad, strange look, and turned away from him. Tinsley felt the ache of guilt seep into him like blood seeps into clothes. He focused hard, finding nothing.</p>
<p>He returned home at around ten pm and took a good 20 minutes climbing the stairs to his apartment. There was work to be done at home, he reminded himself as he ascended. Gotta investigate leads, re-string the board, log the day’s events, count that money in the stupid shoeboax, gotta—</p>
<p>His door was ajar.</p>
<p>He stared at it for a moment, his heart thundering wildly in his chest, his stomach twisting into a terrified knot. Tinsley regained his composure, squared his feet, and pressed forward. The detective drew his gun.</p>
<p>He burst into his own apartment, finding only silence among the wreckage the invaders had left behind. They had thrown his dishes about the floor, knocked over his bookcase, smashed his pictures, even blew out the window to his fire escape. With trembling legs and twitching fingers, Tinsley assessed the damage. They hadn’t taken much— the money under his mattress remained, as well as his briefcase and gold cufflinks in his dresser drawer. What they had taken, though, was arguably the most valuable piece in the whole of Tinsley’s life. The invaders had taken every scrap of information about Ricky that he had collected. Hundreds of pages of information, gone.</p>
<p>A stirring from the corner of his eye alerted him, and the distraught detective whirled on the spot, shakily aiming his gun. From beneath a table lying on its side, a flash of orange fur poked out from the hollow space. Noelle mewled weakly, the saddest little whimper Tinsley had ever heard from her.</p>
<p>“Noelle!” He cried, rushing to her, scooping her up and cradling her little body in his arms. She pressed against him lovingly. “I’m so sorry, Noelle… are you okay?” He continued to whisper to her, reassuring her, tickling her tubby tummy and kissing her forehead. Noelle was unharmed— one blessing Tinsley had left.</p>
<p>He gently set down his precious cat, who took off in the direction of their bathroom, where her litter box stood against the wall by the radiator. Intrigued, the detective followed her. Noelle sat patiently beside the box, upon which a crisp, clean letter sat. </p>
<p>“Detective,” it was addressed. </p>
<p>Here, Tinsley paused. He could take it in as evidence, log it in the books, study it for fingerprints and handwriting analysis and possible fiber collection. He could show it to his boss and to his coworkers— the one scrap of evidence that Ricky Goldsworth even existed— and pray that they wouldn’t fire him on the spot.</p>
<p>He opened the letter without a second thought.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. A Definitive Visit</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hey y’all, sorry this took so long to come out. I am, as the kids say, addicted to marijuana. Please enjoy this quality holly/tinsley content</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Detective Cecil Callan Tinsley,</p><p>The people of the greater New York City area use many terms to name me, terms I’m sure you have familiarized yourself with in your quest to capture me. They call me mobster, gangster, mafia man… but what do my associates call me? They call me Boss, Sir, Mr. Goldsworth— names that I quite like to be addressed by. My closest associates call me Ricky. But what do I call myself?</p><p>I call myself a family man.</p><p>I look out for my family. I look out for my legacy. I sit in the same office held by my father, carrying out the same duties, writing the same checks, doing everything I am expected to do in order to keep the Goldsworth Family prosperous, powerful, and above all, safe. When slimy cops and overconfident detectives come poking their noses in my affairs, they threaten the safety of my family. When the safety of my family is threatened, the claws come out. I’m sure you understand.</p><p>Tinsley, I want you to assess your situation very carefully. You have nothing on me anymore— no documents, no pictures, no witnesses, no previous testimony, not even a previous arrest. You barely have enough proof to tell your police chief that I exist. If you were to go into work tomorrow and keep trying to find me, you’d exhaust yourself before you made it five steps. You’ve got nothing to go off of now. Now, it may not seem like it, but you have plenty of options in deciding which way you want to go from here.</p><p>Your first option, of course, is to continue to chase me. You can run all over manhattan island hunting down my associates, if you can find them, or begging more time and resources from your boss. You can drive yourself crazy all you want, but you won’t succeed.</p><p>Your second option is to drop the case, lose your credibility and self-esteem, and try to continue slaving away at your desk catching low-grade criminals and filling your taxes. The only issue there is that you know a little too much about me. It would be a severe liability to let you walk around freely, spreading any and all information you have. In time, Tinsley, your fate would meet you. If you know what I mean.</p><p>Your third option is to resign from the NYPD permanently and live out your life in peace, unbothered by any of my associates or family, on the agreement that you never again harass the Goldsworth Family. Hell, you might even get a couple favors from my buddies for your cooperation. </p><p>The choice here is clear, but knowing eager, airheaded young detectives like you, you’ll probably make another boneheaded move like you did at the Ophelia. In my generosity, I am offering you a final chance to step back and amend your mistakes. If you make the wrong choice, you will receive no mercies from me or my associates. <br/>I will make myself very clear: no one messes with the Goldsworth Family.</p><p>I sincerely hope that you make the right decision here. If not, I will know as soon as the sun comes up. Remember that you are being watched.</p><p>Signed— Ricky Goldsworth.</p><p> </p><p>Tinsley felt the weight of the letter in his hand, the thick letter paper pressing against the hollow skin between his forefinger and thumb, memorizing the sequence of feelings that passed over him as he took in every word— first, fear twisting a pit in his stomach, second, panic crossing him and straining his heart, and finally, anger, pure and simple. He was angry, getting angrier by the moment. His home, his career, even his cat had been threatened by one elusive man, who now taunted him via ink and alluded to the detective’s upcoming murder. CC Tinsley was absolutely furious.</p><p>He considered the ‘options’ that the criminal had presented him with. He knew that if he showed up to the precinct in the morning empty-handed with hundreds of dollars in evidence vanished, asking again for more time and cash, he would become the laughingstock of the NYPD. He also knew that, on his honor, he couldn’t show his face in that precinct until he had Goldsworth in cuffs.</p><p>Slowly, Tinsley smiled. He tore the letter in two, then into four, then into pieces of confetti so small that they slipped through his hands and scattered about the floor. The detective let his eyes scan across his trashed apartment, the overturned contents of his life’s work, and felt that familiar feeling rise up in him again, the same feeling he had felt as he stared deep into the eyes of the fatherless polish boy— that feeling of purpose. It was what had driven him to become a cop. It was what pulled him through those sleepless nights spent poring over the Bronx Butcher case. It was what got him out of bed every day, motivated him to argue with his boss and coworkers, to go above and beyond for the justice of his city, the city he loved more than anything. The detective, whose life had been turned upside-down by a gangster who barely cast a shadow on the face of the earth, knew he had bit off more than he could chew. But he would be damned if he didn’t chew it all and swallow it in one gulp. He looked to the black shoebox given to him by Francesca, running his fingers across the shiny velvet surface, rocking it side to side to feel the clink and roll of the jewelry inside. A plan was brewing in his head. He smiled, letting that purpose ride the adrenaline still in his bloodstream, letting his future unfold before him.</p><p>“Hey, Ricky,” Tinsley said aloud, facing his broken window. “I’m goin’ with the first option.” </p><p> </p><p>Holly Horsely’s heart thundered in her ears as she climbed another floor higher. She could scarcely tell if it was because she was out of shape, or the fear of what she might find on the tenth floor apartment F13. Her hands grew sticky from the grimy handrail and her own nervous sweat. She stopped to shed her heavy olive trench coat, slinging over her arm, and began the climb again. “Please, Tinsley,” she whispered to herself, “please be okay…”</p><p>She reached his apartment and noticed a light streaming out from the crack beneath the door, reassuring her the slightest bit. She took a deep, shaky breath, and knocked hard. The silence that followed chilled her bones. She did not breathe. She knocked again.</p><p>“Tinsley!” She called, her voice trembling. “Tinsley, are you in there?” Again, no response came. She stared at the motionless door, imagining the worst, fighting back tears. “Come on, Cecil, open the door…” she whispered. She could feel herself beginning to pray.</p><p>The sharp slide of the peephole latch startled her, and she jumped a step back. A shadow moved in front of the small glass circle, seeming to study her. Her heart moved so quickly she couldn’t tell one beat from the next.</p><p>The latch shut and the door was pulled open just enough for a man’s head to poke out cautiously. Tinsley’s hair was greasy and undone, hanging crazily over his forehead. Dark circles surrounded his sunken-in eyes. He was unshaven. He seemed genuinely surprised to see her. “Holly?” He said in a small voice. “Holly, what are you doing here?”</p><p>“I- I came to check on you,” the young woman stuttered, tightening her grip on her folded coat. “Cecil, a- are you okay? Y- you look—“</p><p>“You can’t be here, Holly,” Tinsley interrupted, his face growing dark. “You have to go. I’ll be fine, just go.”</p><p>“What? No!” Holly exclaimed, and Tinsley furiously shushed her, pressing a trembling finger to his pale and chapped lips. Holly shook her head. “No, Cecil, I’m not leaving until I know what’s going on with you.”</p><p>“Holly, please, leave,” he insisted, rubbing his eyes in frustration. “I’m serious, it isn’t safe here. You have to lea—“</p><p>“Let me in, Tinsley,” Holly said, taking a step towards him. In a risky move, she reached out and lightly touched his fingers curling around the edge of the door. She stared at him with pleading eyes, nearly brimming with tears. Tinsley felt his heart slow. He had forgotten this touch, and it filled him with a sense of safety. </p><p>“Okay,” he sighed, not moving from behind the door. “Okay, I’ll let you in. But when we’re done talking, you have to leave, and don’t come back.”</p><p>“Cecil, I can’t—“</p><p>“Promise me,” he said, desperation presenting itself.</p><p>Holly paused. She closed her eyes, swallowing hard. “Okay. I promise.”</p><p>There was a moment of silence, both unmoving, before Tinsley stood up straight and opened the door just wide enough for Holly to slip inside. </p><p>“Jesus Christ, Tinsley,” she gasped as she entered the threshold of his tiny apartment. Not a single overturned item had been set right since the burglary. Papers were still scattered about the floor, the coffee table lay on it’s side, broken glass glimmered in the light from the smashed window. Recently used plates sat in the full sink, fruit flies hovering happily about. Holly wrinkled her nose, appalled. She knew Tinsley as the disorganized type, but she had never known him to live in filth. She turned to him, shocked and frightened. “What happened here?”</p><p>Tinsley furrowed his brow, stepping past her to where his couch lay on its back. He sat down on the edge of it, his hands firm on his knees, his head hung low. </p><p>“A lot has happened, Holly. Why did you come here?”</p><p>“Because you haven’t been at work in four days?” She glared, folding her arms. “Because the last time I saw you, you were hunched over your desk like a paranoid junkie? Of course I went looking for you, Tinsley.”</p><p>“Listen to me, Holly,” said the disheveled detective, rising to stand before her. “If I were to tell you everything, it could potentially put you in danger. I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if you got hurt for something I did. I don’t want to involve you. Look, I’ll be fine. I can handle this on my own. Just—“</p><p>Holly shook her head fervently. “No, no, absolutely not. Whatever this is, you’re not doing it alone.”</p><p>“Holly, listen to me!”</p><p>“It’s Ricky, isn’t it?” She snapped, almost hissing. She narrowed her eyes as he widened his. “The sting was botched, wasn’t it? He got away with your information, and now you’re on his hit list, aren’t you?”</p><p>Tinsley was stunned. “How did you—“</p><p>“I’m not an idiot, Cecil. I heard about the shootout from another officer.”</p><p>Tinsley started to say something else, but Holly stopped him. She took his hand in both of hers, firmly holding. The detective was quiet, focusing on the feeling of her soft, cold hands over his. Almost instantly, he was soothed, quieted by her touch, reassured by her presence beside him. That was the magic Holly carried with her, magic neither of them knew of at the time.</p><p>“Cecil,” Holly said slowly, looking up at him. Her eyes were dark centers of a vast universe, pulling him in, consuming the light around them. “I’m not scared of Ricky Goldsworth.”</p><p>He raised an eyebrow.</p><p>“Okay, maybe I am scared of Ricky Goldsworth. But I want to help you. He’s not like the Butcher of the Bronx— you can’t take him down on your own, not like this. What leads do you have?”</p><p>“I’ve got nothing,” Tinsley said, his voice wavering slightly. “A couple of his guys broke in here and trashed the place. They took all my files, my pictures, my documents, anything and everything I had on the Goldsworth family. It’s gone. There’s nothing left at the precinct, either— I brought it all home. But I’ve been working on something, and I think I might be getting somewhere…”</p><p>The detective turned from her and went to his small desk against the far wall, which still stood upright, though every pen, pencil, and scrap of paper had been thrown from it. From the top shelf, he retrieved a small stack of thick folded papers. “The burglars missed this: it’s a set of three letters, all of them supposedly from Ricky to other booze sellers who either posed a problem for him or could be of use. They’re quite long— Ricky is a man of many words, I guess— and all of them are somewhat threatening, but they all have three things in common…” <br/>He unfolded the papers, revealing a set of three clipped letters written in elegant blue dipping ink. The penmanship was strikingly neat, without a single smudge or missed mark. Tinsley had scribbled all over them in red pen, highlighting and circling certain phrases. He pointed to each. “The Ophelia, something he calls ‘a hound-guards-the-fox situation’, and the Feast of the Assumption.”</p><p>“The feast of the what now?”</p><p>“It’s a Catholic feast day when Mary was supposedly ascended to heaven,” Tinsley explained. “It’s very commonly celebrated in Italy, especially here in the city, and it’s coming up soon— August 15th, only two days away. I’ve been out around Little Italy in disguise, talking to some restaurant owners about the feast. I stumbled on this little one setting up for an event of some sort with a long table. In the letters—“ Tinsley stumbled trying to find the correct quote, “—he mentions that he’s ’got arrangements for the Feast of the Assumption’, but that he would be ‘very nearby and keeping a close eye’ on him regarding their booze-treaty.”</p><p>“Oh, that’s good,” Holly nodded, rubbing her bottom lip with her finger out of habit. “If he’s nearby to whoever got this letter—“</p><p>“—that gives me an opportunity,” Tinsley finished.</p><p>“It gives us an opportunity,” Holly said.</p><p>Tinsley shook his head and raised a hand. “No, no. Not us. There is no ‘us’ in this situation, Holly. I don’t want you involved.”</p><p>“Cecil—“</p><p>“No, Holly. I’m putting my foot down. I refuse to let you become a target for my mistakes.” Holly looked at him, her face twisted in an expression of fear and hurt. Tinsley tried to smile. “Please, Holly, it’ll all be fine. I can handle this.”</p><p>Holly sighed. “Just… fine. Okay. I won’t get involved. But I’m going to help you, whether you like it or not.” Tinsley opened his mouth to protest, but she silenced him with a grin. “Besides, I have a little more information I didn’t share with you before. I’ll bet it’ll come in very handy.”<br/>“What is it?” Tinsley asked earnestly.</p><p>“It’s about Ricky’s bodyguards— a couple of guys called Night-Night and Legs.”</p>
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